


News Comes Quick

by deadlifts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fantasizing, Gen, Guilt, Masturbation, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, misuse of paper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25768318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlifts/pseuds/deadlifts
Summary: The gatekeeper wants to do his job well, but he has a problem. He likes reporting to the professor a little too much.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31
Collections: Wank Week 2020





	News Comes Quick

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 7 of Wank Week (free day), though I included a few of the prompts from the other days.

The gatekeeper is in trouble. 

Big trouble. 

He watches as the professor walks away, their cloak flapping in the wind. Realizing that he’s staring, he dips his head, allowing his helm to fall over his eyes. He takes a deep breath and tries to push the conversation out of his mind, but it stubbornly loops back. 

_Greetings, Professor! Today...There is quite a bit to report!_

The professor had been surprised. For the first time since the gatekeeper met them, they had widened their eyes and parted their lips in a show of subtle but captivating emotion. The sight stole the breath from his chest and made his heart pound with such quick force, he could hear it beating. He fervently hoped the professor didn’t notice anything was amiss as he tried to get through the rest of his report, maintaining his cheerful attitude to the best of his ability. 

Now, with the professor leaving and the conversation echoing in his head, it’s impossible to maintain his front. Every time he pictures their surprised face, his breeches grow tighter, his cock hardening until he’s pressing uncomfortably against his faulds. Sweat breaks out along his neck and brow. He repositions himself, trying not to wiggle in his armor in an attempt to relieve his discomfort. 

He moves his weight from one leg to the other, then backs up against the wall to keep himself steady. This has the unfortunate consequence of shifting his armor, his faulds dragging the fabric of his breeches across his hardening cock. He nearly gasps, but manages to catch himself. Instead, he inhales silently but sharply, then exhales slowly. 

“What’s wrong with you?” his relief asks as he walks out of the entrance hall, causing the gatekeeper to jump. “You’re squirming and your face is red. Are you sick?” 

Clearly, the gatekeeper is too distracted to do his job at this point; it’s shameful that he managed to be surprised by his relief. “I’m fine!” he replies with as much energy as he can muster. “Just a little warm.” 

His relief frowns skeptically, likely because the weather is actually fairly pleasant. Thankfully, he doesn’t press further. “You’re relieved. Go get some rest.” 

It takes a tremendous amount of effort not to simply run off. The gatekeeper nods and thanks him, then walks into the Entrance Hall as calmly as possible, grateful that his faulds conceal his growing problem. He waves hello to students as he passes them in an effort to keep his mind distracted, but no matter how hard he tries to think of other things, his thoughts return to the professor. 

As soon as he makes it into his room, he shuts the door and slumps against it, sliding down to the floor. The subjects of the masked man and Flayn’s kidnapping are extremely important and should be all that occupies his mind. As a gatekeeper, he has a big responsibility on his shoulders and cannot afford to be distracted. 

But he doesn’t think of the masked man as he removes his helm and sets it on the floor. He doesn’t think of poor Flayn and her worried brother scouring the monastery for her. 

He thinks of the professor and their expressionless eyes crinkling at the corners as they moved from surprise to a fleeting near-smile. He thinks of the way they always listen to him, even when he has nothing of value to say. And he thinks of the one time they brushed against him while running to the stables. 

The gatekeeper takes off his gauntlets and tosses them aside. He reaches behind himself to unclasp his faulds from his breastplate, working his way to the front. He brushes his gloved hands over his clothed cock in the process of pulling it away — accidentally at first, and then intentionally, slower this time, dragging his palm over the bulge and shuddering through the surge of want that spreads through him. 

“No,” he says out loud, firmly setting his hands on the floor at his sides. He will not give into desire — will not botch his duties by turning them into a fantasy. 

He shoves himself off the floor and stands, peeling away the rest of his armor until he’s stripped down to his underclothes. Then he takes the time to carefully wrap the pieces in cloth and place them in the wooden chest that houses his belongings, handling each piece with the respect it deserves. 

When he’s done with that task, he finally removes his gloves and sets them on his desk. By now, his earlier conflict has been resolved and his mind is once again steady. He steps back, admiring the armor he feels so proud to wear, and then he decides to dress and head to the dining hall for a meal. 

Before he turns to dress for the occasion, there’s a knock on his door. 

“Yes?” he calls as he hurries to answer it. He cracks the door open. 

“News for you,” says Alois, holding up a folded note. 

“Oh,” the gatekeeper replies, surprised. “Already?” He opens the door a little more and reaches for the note. 

Alois nods as he hands it over. “I’d brief you, but if you read that note you’ll get a ‘handle’ on the situation.” He taps the door handle. 

A joke! At a time like this! When there’s news to read and report to the professor later! Normally, the gatekeeper enjoys Alois’ puns, even when they’re extra silly. It’s nice that Alois is always so cheerful; the gatekeeper aspires to be like that into his tenure, too. But right now, he’s far too eager to read the message. 

He forces out a laugh. “Good one…” 

Alois smiles. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

He quickly shuts the door. Alone once more, he runs his fingers over the folded paper, thinking about the words that are written within it — the news that he will be able to report to the professor tomorrow. He slips his thumb over the two flaps and finds himself holding his breath as he finally coaxes the note open. 

The note is simple — a few short sentences about another sighting of the masked man. It’s relatively insignificant, but it’s _something_ , words that he can repeat with a smile tomorrow. And maybe, upon hearing them, the professor will smile back. 

He clutches the note a little tighter and reads it again, out loud this time, his lips savoring the feel of the words between them. In an effort to memorize every word, he reads it once more, but prefaces this second recitation with: “Greetings, Professor! Something to report.” 

He’s growing hard again, now that he has something tangible to offer, words he can speak, dialogue beyond idle monastery gossip. He touches the dried ink, tracing the words _masked man_ , and feels himself stirring internally, a tug in his core that has him backing up toward his bed. 

He’s losing himself, he realizes as he sets the note on the edge of the bed and takes a seat. He feels his face heat even though there’s no one in his room to see him sitting here like this, half-hard in his breeches, his hands resting atop his thighs and inching upward, toward his groin, until his fingers can reach his clothed cock. There’s no one to witness him bite his lip as he brushes his fingertips over himself, then transitions from fingers to palm, rubbing his breeches against himself until he’s hard. 

And yet, he feels himself blushing. He’s embarrassed to be touching himself like this, at the thought of speaking with the professor, with a symbol of his duty lying on the bed beside him. He’s ashamed, because he’s always wanted to be the best possible gatekeeper, held to high standards, protecting the students while reporting important news. 

He doesn’t want to be like this: now fully hard and yearning, his control as broken as the gasp that escapes him when he slips his hand under his waistband and grazes his warm fingers over his length. 

But Goddess help him, he _is_ like this — lying pliant on his back, hurrying to shove down his breeches, unable to maintain his control much longer. He has teased himself by holding back, by trying not to think about the professor, and now he’s simmering with unspent energy, his mind filled with the words from the note and his body teeming with the lust he failed to repress. 

He kicks his breeches off of himself, then drags himself further up the bed. Now exposed, he looks down at himself and sighs. _I’m sorry, Professor,_ he thinks as he directs his attention to the ceiling, resting his hand just above his cock. Today, he will fail in his duty, so tomorrow, his mind will be clear. 

He touches himself lightly, a glance of fingertips along the base of his cock, and imagines the professor listening to his report — pictures the minute change in their expression, the piquing of their interest, their mildly pleased acknowledgement. As he considers their response, he moves his fingers upward, runs the pads of his fingers over his crown and bites his lip as _want_ begins to bleed into _need_. 

Without oil, he has to be gentle with himself, and so when he encircles his fingers around his cock, he eases his hand lightly up and down, his grip loose and his cock only lightly stimulated by the friction his hand creates. As he works himself, he recites the note to himself again. 

_The masked man,_ he thinks as his hand settles at the base of his cock, squeezes, then skims up over the entirety of his length, _was spotted in town again, this time in daylight_. He lightly twists his hand over his crown, then uses all five fingers to trace the underside of his cock, from the tip downward. 

Pleasure spreads from his core to the rest of his body as he begins to speak out loud, words spilling from his lips. “He disappeared — _ah_ — before — before —” 

He loses the words as that feeling builds, as his cock begins to ache for more contact, his light touch edging him toward a release he will not be able to easily achieve like this, unable to grasp himself in full. He groans, frustrated with himself for being in this position at all, but even that emotion falls to the wayside once he moves his fingers again, this time over his balls and down the sensitive strip of skin beneath them. 

It still isn’t enough. He reaches blindly until he finds the note and grasps it. Then he folds it, one-handed, until it’s back in its original delivered state. While he works his fingers back toward his cock, he runs the sharp corner of the note over his abdomen, across his chest, then along his nipple. The corner catches, the sharp point digging along the tip, creating a sensation that rides the border between pain and pleasure. He flicks his nipple with the paper again, harder this time, eliciting a burst of yearning that travels straight to his cock, which he takes in his hand once more. 

Keeping his grip light, he strokes himself quicker, his hand moving up and down with a growing desperation. He wants to clench his fingers around himself, but he holds back, eager to drive himself to the brink just like this, without further interruption. 

“He disappeared,” he tries to recite again, “before he could be c-cap —” his words are swallowed by a moan, his hips bucking on their own accord. Frantically, he flicks his nipple with the paper with more force, and abandoning any hope of holding back, he grasps his cock harder and pumps it, up and down. 

“Professor —” he whines, thinking of their eyes filled with gratitude, a compliment shaped by their lips, and a rare and proud smile, all for him. 

“I have — _ah!_ ” He’s so close now, every iota of his body tensing as he nears his climax. His toes curl as his hips roll and he loses his rhythm with the paper — goes from flicking it against his nipple to clutching it tightly, crinkling it against his chest. 

“Some...something,” he attempts to say, the word broken by a whine. “To…” 

He strokes harder, faster, his breath coming in short, stuttered gasps, until — 

“Report!” He comes hard, curling in on himself, his body jerking as his cock pulses through a climax so intense, a cry tears through his throat and his vision darkens. He spends himself on his stomach and bed, small aftershocks of pleasure rippling through him, leaving him quivering and whimpering in the aftermath. 

When it’s over, he takes a shaky breath and releases himself, using his sticky hand to prop himself up into a sitting position. He’s a mess — his cock is raw and aching, his nipple feels sore, and worst of all, his note has been defiled. 

He feels guilty, too, and embarrassed by what he’s done. It will be difficult to look the professor in the eye tomorrow, and probably every day after that, too. 

But whereas his body and conscience are both stained, his mind is clear. No longer does it stray toward the professor or even the contents of the note. If anything, it seems to repel any additional attempts to fantasize in that direction. 

He uses this clarity to make a very important decision, one that will set the course for the rest of his career. 

He must do his best to avoid offering trivial news to the professor. 

Crumbling up the note into a tight, uncompromising ball, he throws it across the room. He will not recite those words to the professor tomorrow. 

He will work harder. He will keep watch with greater focus. He will do his best to keep the monastery free of threats. 

If he is successful, he will be able to tell the professor that the monastery is safe. 

He will have nothing to report.


End file.
